Greg, Gentleman and a Conspiracy Theorist

Isla's cat bit my ankle. I shook it off, careful not to kick the mangy thing. Animals weren't normally too fond of me. Or any vamp, as far as I'd noticed. Lots of hissing and swatting and growls. Pity, cause I liked cats.

This one, instead of filleting my ankles, just flopped over onto its side and rubbed its head against my foot. Funny how some cats can just turn their whole necks around like that. I reached a finger down for the creature to sniff.

"Grumpkin, leave him alone," muttered Isla, who, much like her cat, flopped onto her bed and unbuckled high heels. They thudded onto the floor—not so unlike Britney's body—and she rubbed her feet. Panting. Still. Her chest rosy and heaving as she massaged her ankle. We ran three blocks before grabbing a cab. She insisted I didn't carry her.

I insisted on escorting her home.

Grumpkin, as the little fleabag was called, abandoned shedding all over my shoes to bop his head against his mother's heel. Isla rewarded the cat with a scratch behind the ears.

Gave me the oddest urge to itch my own. Which I did. And ran a hand through my hair. Which felt stiff from product. Stiff as my neck and shoulders. How ridiculous. I was a stiff, shouldn't I be beyond getting stiff?

Checked Isla's locks again. Good. The deadbolt was still secure. I strode across the apartment, past Isla on her bed, and checked the windows. Ah, see, there it was. She didn't keep the middle one locked. Fixed that. The frames of the windows were decorated with runes and sigils. Small and faintly painted on. Witch's sigils. Ones for protection, I think? Witchcraft and magic weren't my forte. Wonder who she got those spells from, and if they even worked.

"You want to lock up the café downstairs too?" she said.

As she did, my phone vibrated in my pocket.

"Who's that?" Isla asked again.

Fangs. Mrs. Cabroni. Phoebe must've patched her through. I didn't have time for her barks. Ignored the call.

"'Nother client. It's fine. I'll call them later."

Isla rubbed her rosy chest. Not just rosy. Bloody. She smeared Britney's viscera across her collarbone and didn't even realize. No clue. My fangs were sharp in my mouth. I gritted my teeth and willed them to shrink. The ache in my veins howled and protested. My limbs were heavy. Tired. Hollow. The drinks at the bar did nothing to dull those cravings, only dulling my senses, making my head fizzy. How stupid of you, old boy, to drink on the job. You didn't even hear that murder coming.

I paced back and forth between her bed and kitchen. Helped me think, to keep moving.

"We were set up," I said, unbuttoning the top of my shirt so I could move easier. "Body falls on the roof moment we're supposed to meet that snaky snitch, Julian? Fanging coward. That's no coincidence, darling!"

"Who the heck even throws a body on to a roof?"

"Ha!" I laughed. In times like these, how could you not? "Ain't that the million-dollar question tonight. Julian, right? Makes the most sense. Nobody else knew about our meeting. Less of course he talked. Snitched to his masters. Not Dmitri, that lovesick loon is the only who wants us to find the girl."

"Lily."

"Right. Lily. So who else does Julian serve? Sloane, yeah? He rats to Sloane. She runs the joint now, needs to keep order. Needs to keep Dmitri distracted to keep that order to boot. Sloane sics her dog on Britney—trust me, I know Curtis, he's not the subtle type, a throw onto a roof seems right up his alley—to silence her before she can spit any more secrets at us. Like the identity of Lily's paramour, maybe not a boyfriend, but a girlfriend, eh? Lily and Sloane shacking up together. Plotting a company take over? Ousting Dmitri from the business by framing him, not for murder, we all know draining a human ain't illegal for vamps, keeping one alive though, without those consent forms? That's what you would call a big yikes with the Magistrate.

"So Sloane files the paperwork to make Lily her human, keeps her low key while they wait for it to clear, cause after that Lily will be under Sloane's protection to testify that Dmitri, whose name is on the business, is running an illegal blood service out his club. Britney nearly blows the whole spot up to us, so she has to go, dramatically, to send a message to stop asking around!"

"Slow down there, Sam Spade, you might pull a muscle the way you're flinging those theories." Isla sighed. "You know none of that makes any sense, right? Like, you can hear yourself? Britney very clearly said Lily had a boyfriend. And why would Julian show up at Lily's apartment if he was just going to narc to Sloane?"

I pinched my nose. "Right. Stick to the facts."

"Sloane shooed us out real fast when the werewolves showed up too. Don't forget to factor that into your conspiracy theory."

Isla grabbed her stocking by the toe and pulled. In one long stretch the black sheer garment slipped right off her smooth leg. She wiggled and stretched her toes. Her silver anklet jangled.

Among the clutter of her kitchen counter was a bag of Doritos. I grabbed it. Chips crunched hard against my teeth, little bits stabbing my gums. They were a bit stale, but no amount of time could dull tangy hit of that artificial cheese powder.

"Sure," Isla said, peeling off a glove. "Just make yourself at home."

The skin that was hidden beneath her gloves was a touch paler. She wore them often. And, noting what appeared to be some long-faded scars and needle marks in the crook of her arm, I didn't blame her. Funny, I didn't figure her for an addict. She must be clean a long while. You know an addict when you smell one. She didn't have that poisonous smell.

Higher up her arm, a splash of arterial spray above her otherwise unblemished, olive skin marked the line where her glove ended above her elbow.

My throat felt tight.

Couldn't look away.

I bit another chip.

Isla stood, blowing a hair out of her face with those plush lips. Her makeup was smeared. Her lipstick, specifically. Streaks of faded red blurred out and onto her chin. I did that.

The fangs was I thinking kissing her like that? So unprofessional. And stupid. Her remark was just so, so laughably stupid it was adorable and my unbeating heart seized up and I couldn't resist her. And the way she melted her mouth and lips and tongue against mine felt so, so good.

She tripped over a pile of magazines reaching for a chip. Only a small stumble. Didn't stop her from sucking cheese dust of her finger in a way that ached to watch. I looked away. Should probably just check the locks again. Or take her trash out. She had two near to busting bags full it by the door, not counting what was in the can. And all the food thrown onto the counter. The broken glass in the sink. Along with the magazines, other books and things were piled against her shelf—as it seemed one cube had been broken. The plants that were on her windowsill were gone too. Odd. The apartment was cluttered, sure, but it seemed less chaotic before. Tidier. Despite it certainly smelling more antiseptically cleaner in here. Even her pictures, all the art and things hung on her pink wall, were crooked. A rectangular piece was missing. You could see the way the paint faded around the spot. Couldn't recall what was hanging there last I was here though.

"What happened to your place?"

"Ah, just, you know, redecorating. Help me with my zipper?" She turned around, giving me her back. That wasn't fair. She was distracting me and I didn't want to damage her dress with cheesy fingers.

I held the delicate dress, gingerly gliding the zipper down her back. The fabric peeled away, revealing smooth skin, dotted here and there with a mole. The dress was a loose fit, but an indent from the zipper was scratched along the bottom of her spine. I did that too. My hips nearly jerked involuntarily at the memory of pressing her warm body into the ledge on Irwin's patio.

"You're right. That theory's shit." I said, clearing my throat. "The Magistrate is undoubtedly already at the club. They won't miss the illegal blood service. The jig is up."

Isla tensed. "Yeah, but, the Magistrate didn't show up till we got out, right? You didn't see any brooms flying up as we bounced?"

She wiggled into her bathroom, closing the door, yet leaving it just a crack ajar. Wasn't sure why till she tossed her dress out and onto the floor. I placed it in her overflowing hamper.

"No," I said. Certainly didn't need their inquiries, on top of everything else. "No, we're in the clear."

"Good."

Water ran in Isla's bathroom. Sounded like the tub. Sounded like the drain was clogged too. And that Isla was sloshing around in it, naked, scrubbing the blood – so much blood – off her legs and chest and trembling arms.

"Are you okay?" I said, not looking at the just open enough bathroom. Not even a little bit. Not even out the corner of my eye.

"Yeah," she called out, turning off the water. "How 'bout you?"

How was I? Sure didn't get asked that a lot, of course. Cause it didn't really matter, now did it? I was undead. No matter what, I'd unlive. Even Phoebe's stopped asking that. But this was the second time. In one night. My nose finally healed at least.

"I'll unlive," I said. Same thing I always said. How stupid.

Isla floated out from the bathroom. She wore that robe. The silk one. Purple. It quietly swished against her naked thighs. She smelled like mint leaves and oranges again. The soothing scent embraced her. A lopsided smile graced her lips.

Not the norm, I find, for those who witness murders firsthand.

Then again, the woman claimed to channel ghosts and the Netherworld for a living. One's tolerance for death must get high, with a gig like that.

She licked her thumb and, without warning, smudged it against the corner of my mouth. I froze. Had to. The way she grazed the pad of her finger against my lip tightened every nerve ending still functioning in my body. I could feel her racing pulse right there in her fingertips.

"You've got cheese dust," she said, her voice smokier than before.

"How disgusting."

I licked the tip of her thumb. She shivered. But she was right. I tasted the powdery tang of fake cheese on her skin.

She pushed her thumb away from my mouth, winding her hand around my neck. Her black eyes fluttered. Fangs she was beautiful. There. I admit it. Isla was a knockout. And a client. And this would be a mistake, like the kiss on the roof. But I've already made so many mistakes. Why let another slip through my fingers?

I stepped closer, sliding a knee between hers, gently taking hold of her hips.

She released a shuddering breath and pulled me down for a kiss.

Her eager mouth was hot and plush and tasted of fresh toothpaste. Isla snaked her tongue around my mine, searching for my fangs. I held them back, best I could, at least, so as not to cut her. She whimpered for them. Pushed me back when I pulled my mouth away. The world tilted. Next I knew we stumbled onto her surprisingly comfortable bed, she straddling my hips.

She kissed my neck. My ears. My chest. Ground herself against me and I gasped. She was so warm. Warm and soft and wet under her robe. She felt good and hot and it burned that she wouldn't even kiss my mouth. I ran a hand through her hair, guiding her mouth back to mine with a slight tug that she obeyed with a heavy moan oh fangs.

I slipped my hands into her robe, not yet untying her, just holding her soft skin till she trembled.

Isla tugged off my gun holster, I lifted my back to help her along, giggling. "Why does a vamp even carry a gun?"

"Has its uses," I groaned as she dipped a hand into my trousers sweet hell this woman was forward and eager and intoxicating and I wanted her. Bad. So, so, so bad.

"Um," she breathed against my neck, her hand in my pants slowing. "Everything okay?"

A hunger pain snarled in my veins. Hollow and numbing and yet the lack of blood flow in me throbbed. More than wanting Isla did, sadly, and evidently. My stomach roiled. When was the last time I'd consumed real, fresh blood, straight out an artery?

Fangs.

"It's not you," I said, eyes squeezed shut, unable to look her in her flushed cheeks. "I'm, uh, the tank is a bit dry. I haven't drank in a while, uh—"

"Oh?" her weight shifted off me and she pulled her hand away. "Oh. You need—"

"I'm not asking! I'm not asking you for that. I don't—" I ground my teeth against the lie and tried my darndest not to look at her throbbing jugular – "want to do that to you."

"Oh."

"I'm sorry. I, um, I didn't realize this would be a problem."

"It's fine," she said, voice pitched higher than usual. "I'm sure it happens to all the vamps."

An acidic tide of shame rose in my chest. Damn you, old boy, can't get anything right, now can you?

Isla cleared her throat. "I, uh, don't have to come to a complete stop, do I, officer?"

She reclined and lifted her robe open at her waist. Her arousal, obvious and gorgeous, overwhelmed me. A fang cut into my lip. Though I was sure I was grinning like an idiot, I couldn't think of a witty reply. I laid a hand on her thigh instead. She shivered and sucked in a sharp breath, accelerating her thumping heartbeat. Gently, I slide my palm up the inside of her soft thigh. But the acidity in my abdomen didn't relax. As my fingers stroked her, a sour taste stroked my throat.

Throwing her head back onto her pillows, Isla gasped.

I wanted to kiss her. To taste her as she—

Doritos soured in my mouth instead. The fizzy aftertaste of champagne. Iron of watered-down blood. Burnt coffee. Greasy meat. Cheez Whiz.

There's a reason why us vamps stay away from human food.

We can't digest it.

I flung myself off Isla and zipped to her bathroom, retching and expelling the last several days stomach contents into her toilet.

From her bed, Isla cackled, a hysterical fit of laughter overtaking her. "I'm so sorry," she wheezed. "Want some water?"

I retched again.